


Not Alone

by swordliliesandebony



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Here Lies the Abyss, Survivor Guilt, Warden Carver Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 18:15:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8112409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordliliesandebony/pseuds/swordliliesandebony
Summary: [A mix of the requests 'Hawkes at Skyhold' and 'Carver Pining']
Carver Hawke, returned to Skyhold after events within the Fade leave him last of his name, wants nothing more than to avoid the stream of well-wishers and apologetic strangers. The nightmare still stalks him and the guilt of surviving, yet again, seems too heavy a burden to bear. Fenris, less well-wishing and apologetic, more supportive and familiar, becomes an easy source of support and distraction.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chiarascura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiarascura/gifts).



Fenris made him feel.

Carver hated that.

It had been easy to forget, when a distance greater than Kirkwall separated them. Carver could pretend he was content with his station in the Wardens; he was making a name for himself there, away from his brother's shadow. Away from Fenris, too. It was easier that way, a fact especially plain where he leaned at Skyhold's ramparts, staring pointedly at the mountains rather than the man. Except now, there were feet rather than miles between them. And his brother's shadow cast longer, darker than ever in the wake of his death.

"You've been avoiding me," Fenris' voice lifted over the wind, came at just less than a shout. A storm had been looming and, sooner than expected, would be upon them. The temperature had plunged and with the increasing gusts, Carver had numbed his face and hands to a dull ache a half hour past. If Fenris hadn't appeared, he might have been able to internalize the biting cold; just the proximity was enough to make his eyes burn, his face heat. Anger, regret, embarrassment, and something else. Something that made his jaw clench and his eyes stay fixed.

"It isn't personal," a lie, "I've been avoiding everyone," not a lie. There had been some he couldn't avoid; Cullen had overwhelmed him with words of sympathy and apologies and in all displayed just how little he knew of Carver or of Garrett in every respect. Varric had sat him for drinks and all manner of story Carver had no desire to hear. But he hadn't missed how Varric couldn't quite look him in the eye through it. Carver knew better than to worry about any of that from Fenris. Fenris would know better than to talk about Garrett, to offer stupid platitudes and condolences and all the like. He would say things that made Carver's cheeks burn even in the cold, would make his heart stutter and his eyes shift, and he would walk away, leaving Carver wanting. Fenris wouldn't draw him into an embrace or tell him that everything would be okay, but _damned if Carver didn't, beyond his own comprehension, want him to_.

"But you're still here," Carver heard- no, more sensed- him take a step. The tension in his jaw spread through his shoulders, down his arms. It ached when he drew a breath, all icy air and stabbing guilt. _Make it better or go_. He wouldn't say it. He was being unreasonable. He never said any of the things he wanted to Fenris. It was too difficult, with those eyes and their expression and the lips... "you have every excuse to leave, but you're here. Avoiding me."

"Bad form to skip your brother's funeral," another gust hit and Carver found he had to yell over it. He still didn't look back, but a tinge of sympathy hit. Fenris was probably freezing. He really did hate the cold, and damned if he ever dressed for it. And that's what Carver was thinking of, was concerned about in that moment. Whether or not Fenris was comfortably warm at the onset of a blizzard; it wasn't his brother's idiotic sacrifice eating him alive, or even that he was presently shirking important responsibilities with the Wardens. Fenris was like to be a shivering mess and it was his fault.

"Perhaps," and Fenris sidled up next to him, leaned up against the ledge to stare at just the same unspecified point. Carver nearly flinched away; instead, he gripped the stone edge, forearms burning as they pressed against ice. The wind came again, harder, nearly enough to push him away from the edge. He tightened his hold and closed his eyes against the gale. It felt good, in that it felt like pain and nothingness and that was exactly what he was going for, "and you think freezing to death before the ceremony is a fair way to avoid it?"

"You know me too well," a bit too honest. Carver cringed at himself, though if Fenris dared to comment, the ever-worsening weather seemed a fair excuse, "and you're braving the storm for what? To get me back inside and drinking until I'm sick?"

"You know _me_ too well," Fenris chuckled and Carver couldn't help to look. He'd never seen Fenris so well bundled, but he swore the elf was still on the verge of going blue. A sigh caught in his throat and he shook his head, "Varric arranged for Wicked Grace. It might be possible to sneak through unnoticed," he jerked his head toward the little tavern's upper entrance. He could only manage a moment of hesitation before agreeing.

The tavern's heat was just shy of overwhelming, even upstairs. Carver clenched and relaxed his fists as sensation prickled back to his fingers, reluctant to show any sign of relief. Fenris, for his part, did not hide his distaste for Skyhold's climate; even if he was only outside for ten minutes, counting generously. A low roar of conversation, laughter, and general merriment rolled over them just as quickly as the relative warmth. Varric's game, Carver noted over the balcony, was in full swing. He opted for an upper level table rather than chancing a stroll past it.

Fenris, after cursing the cold a bit longer, disappeared down the stairway for drinks. Carver swallowed down an urge to call after him, to admit his company, his proximity was more important in that moment. Instead, he sank into the chair- sank into himself- and steeled his face against a rise of emotion. Carver found himself often, and especially in this moment, at odds with himself. He set himself at work toward constant isolation since he first arrived at Skyhold, some time before they ever fell into the Fade. Solitude spared him the headache of conversation then, of condolences now. He didn't want to speak, wanted even less to listen. Sitting at the table with only his thoughts for company left him waiting with little patience for Fenris to crest the stairs.

His thoughts weren't always a problem, almost never, in fact, when he was with the Wardens. He could take a command, focus on it, clear his mind of distraction and direct himself to purpose. It came naturally and it served him well. Happy may not have been the word, but until the world started coming apart at the edges, content wasn't a bad descriptor. Now? His mind wandered, raced, locked up. It got stuck on that moment, of Garrett physically pushing him to run; half-speed, rewind, fast forward, rewind, over and over, his final words, his final sacrifice. For him.

And there was the real gut-punch. There was the wind being sucked from his lungs, there were his eyes glued to the floor when Varric asked after his best friend upon their escape. There was every moment Carver had wanted nothing more than to escape his brother and his shadow and all his heroism and idiocy, capped and wrapped, presented to him in that moment, replaying forever. He could feel his hands again, trembling. He gripped the edge of the table to steady. His leg bounced, he licked his lips, bit, licked again. His mouth was sandpaper- when had that happened?

' _I'll handle this one. Go take care of our old friend._ '

His ears were ringing with the voice, head dizzying, ears buzzing. Why was his heart beating so fast, why couldn't he just _breathe_? Clutching the table harder, a sharp pain- wood splintering into his palm. Not shaking as much though, not suffocating, a little less disoriented. He hears something, a rumble, someone speaking but indistinct. His brain doesn't make the connection, doesn't translate the sounds to words until the stein hits the table in front of him.

"Carver," Fenris' voice was edged with concern. Carver's head snaps up, the spell breaks, he can breathe again. He lifted his brows and loosened his grip, though his hands were still unsteady and he let them fall to his lap.

"Sorry, what?" He nudged the other chair with his toe, watched far too closely when Fenris sits. He wanted to down his whole mug- his throat is still painfully dry. He managed instead to lean in for a reasonable draw without shaking hand spilling all down his chin. A success. His eyes have accidentally stayed fixed to Fenris through it all. Gaze darts away quickly, cheeks flare. When did this get so hard? He'd shared drinks with Fenris a hundred times. _He'd lost every other member of his famil_ y... his throat went tight again. He took another, less reasonable drink.

"Have you slept?" The concern hadn't faded, though at least he avoided the usual worried badgering. No 'are you okay's or 'what's wrong's. Carver had heard enough of those, wondering each time how anyone could need to ask. They knew what was wrong. They knew that he wasn't okay- knew it in a way that they would argue the point if he brushed it off. Fenris had a way of being concerned on a more practical, personal, meaningful level. Carver doubted it intentional, but appreciated it in a way that he would never consider voicing.

"At some point in my life, probably," he went for his mug again but recoiled quickly. The splinter wedged and rang in pain at the contact and he was finally forced to inspect the wound. It wasn't horribly deep, but it ran long across his palm, an unnatural and thin inch or two of darkness embedded in flesh. It made him a little dizzy again; blood and gore in the heat of battle was all well and good, but a minor and unexpected injury to one's person at the start of drinks? Disastrous.

Fenris had seized his hand wordlessly, hadn't given him time to react, to recoil. He wouldn't have even with warning. Carver _hadn't_  slept the night before, or the night before that, really. Hazily, he recalled drifting off in a chair in the chambers the Inquisitor had provided. Sleep, when it came, hadn't lasted long. Whatever fight his brother put up, the nightmares unequivocally won. Fatigue set aside, Fenris' hands were warm, touch surprisingly light. How many times had Carver seen him lay waste with his blade? It was hard not to be shocked by the gentleness, harder not to be even further endeared. He used his free hand to take up his drink, desperate to hide his face. He only nearly choked at the horrible sensation of the splinter being removed.

"Good thing we're not in the Hanged Man. You'd have already lost the arm to corruption," Fenris had removed the splinter, drawn over his snow-soaked cloak to wipe Carver's hand clean. Even after, his hand lingered. Fingers ran over fingers and Carver was still holding the quickly drained mug to hide his expression. He couldn't take his eyes away, watching Fenris' hand move over his. He swallowed air, set the stein down again, hoped his hand wouldn't go back to trembling.

"Probably," that wasn't a response. Not really, not a worthwhile one. Carver felt heat rise up his neck again, fought an urge to apologize. Fenris' words barely registered, really. He was still focused on the fingers that had tangled, woven into his. Then he squeezed; an impulse, a need for reassurance. He gave Fenris' hand that small pressure, waited for him to draw away, to scold. But he didn't. And when he felt Fenris' hand tighten, his heart leapt to his throat and he found a sudden need to stare at the floor. He was praying that the tavern's lighting- inconsistent at best- might hide the perpetual flush cast across his cheeks. At very least, he could chalk it up to the drink. Those explanations, excuses, were only for himself though. Fenris wouldn't say anything. Then again, he didn't expect Fenris to be holding his hand atop the table, squeezing against another tremor.

"You're not alone," Fenris' statement was simple, unprompted. He didn't comment on the half-hearted response to his joke, nor on the way Carver's eyes had averted him since his arrival at Skyhold. He didn't mention the trembling or the blushing or the attitude- harsh even by Carver's standards. He said only what Carver needed to hear. Carver's eyes burnt, vision blurred. It was too much. Why was he doing this? _How_  was he doing this? What Fenris certainly meant and what Carver wished were likely two very different things. He knew that. Even with the drink buzzing warm in his skull and the fatigue creeping through his senses, he knew better. Still, he had needed it so badly- those words, from that mouth. That hand around his. He swallowed, attempted to put words together.

_But what the hell was he supposed to say?_

It felt crucial, potentially life-altering, that he pick the right words. He'd worked some out before, back in Kirkwall. Grand confessions, maybe a little bit of physicality to back them; as many times as he'd caught himself- perhaps even been caught- staring, he was sure Fenris had stared right back more than once or twice. And given the number of nights he'd spent locked up alone, recounting those stares, he'd absolutely come up worth words at some point. But that was a lifetime ago, before the expedition, before the wardens, before Kirkwall- never quite a home- became even less of one. It was before Garrett died to save him, left him with no shadow to hide in. Carver felt, quite suddenly, very sick and very quiet.

"I used to imagine this, you know," honesty. What the hell was he thinking, going with honesty? "not this exactly, but," he looked at Fenris, who had kept his face blank. His head had tilted slightly though, and he swore there was a twitch at the edge of his lip, "you, saying...I don't know," he looked at their hands, still together on the table. He glanced at Fenris' wine goblet, tried to judge just how much had been drained. Not enough for all of this, "a lot of things. Something like that. But different. Nobody was dead when I imagined it, for one. And there was," he stopped himself, shook his head, "I'm babbling. Forget it. Thank you, really-"

"-tell me," Fenris had leaned in, closed some of the distance the table put between them. His eyes, always so intense, so inviting. Carver swallowed, shifted his hand to untangle, but there was resistance, "what else was there?" his voice was challenging, but not unkind; As intense as his eyes, and demanding. It was suddenly far too hot inside. Carver wanted nothing more than to run back out to the ramparts, maybe throw himself from them. He was sweating, shaking, heart aching against his ribs. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. But he'd already made a fool of himself, hadn't he? And how could anyone blame him for acting irrationally, with all that he'd just been through, with little food and no sleep and a pint down? Who would even believe him, if he said he was in his right mind?

So he leaned across the table, took his weight from the chair to brace his elbows, closed on Fenris' mouth with a certainty he absolutely did not truly posess. His tongue flicked Fenris' lips, tasted a hint of the wine on them. He locked the flavor in his memory, something to recall when Fenris pulled away, insisted miscommunication, and he spent the night in his quarters full of heat and shame and regret. But Fenris didn't pull back, didn't say a word. Instead, Carver felt a toothy tug at his lower lip, then an insistent parting. Distantly, beyond the heat rushing to his face, rushing elsewhere, muted beneath the pulse pounding in his ears, Carver heard his chair fall. He didn't pay it much mind.

"That," Carver breathed the response, chancing a look at Fenris when their lips had parted. He was smiling, eyes half-lidded, lips still just barely parted. He was tempted, almost compelled to kiss them again. The heat of the tavern, of the breath between them, was no longer stifling. He wondered if he should speak again, fidgeted his hands on the table. He should pick up the chair, he thought. He should run. Definitely run. He'd never planned to get even this far, and where to go next? His thoughts were spinning beyond his control, but for the first time since falling back out of the Fade, they were free of his brother's presence.

"Just that?" Fenris' feline smile widened in a way that made Carver gasp. What, exactly, was he supposed to say? That he'd spent countless nights with fantasies of the man, of his body and heat and touch to keep him company? That, in the heat of the moment, his name had absolutely spilled from Carver's lips while his hand played an adequate and disappointing substitute? With that smile, that look in his eyes, maybe that was exactly what Fenris wanted to hear. He looked, after all, expectant. Carver licked his lips, trying for the last taste of the other's presence.

"Your lips were still involved anyway," Carver had meant for it to sound more seductive, sexier, but it came out as a bit of a grunt. Almost pouting. Fenris' smile didn't break though, and he seemed inclined to the thought. Carver righted himself fully, then gave enough of a tug to draw Fenris up to his feet. There was a moment, a little awkward and fumbling, that he still wasn't sure he was doing the right thing. Somewhere at the edges of his mind, guilt was tugging; he was pretty sure this wasn't what grief looked like. But Fenris had stepped close and soon their hips were nearly pressed together, and Carver's hands were grabbing at a gather of cloak in the small of Fenris' back, and any thoughts of remorse were quickly set aside, "come to my room."

The walk to Carver's arranged quarters involved a courtyard crossing, through a storm that was now fully in swing. Carver thought it lucky when he could see more than a foot ahead of him, ice and snow driving furiously at, into, around them. Fenris was huddled tight against him as they moved, hissing words Carver couldn't translate, but could make an educated guess upon. The cold, biting and relentless, never quite reached Carver's core. It barely touched his flesh, such was the heat his body had transitioned to.

Still, it was a relief to make it back to the room. It was small but perhaps overly lavish, likely a space usually reserved for considerably more important, more influential guests. Carver had, when he first arrived, insisted he would be happy sharing space with the rest of the Inquisition's armed men. The Herald's insistence on something more private, more comfortable came as a blessing now. A fire had been lit to warm the room in his absence and he took no small amount of pleasure in watching Fenris warm his hands at the hearth, then begin to unravel his well-soaked travelling cloak. Still, there was a moment of uncertainty where Carver lingered in front of the door before sliding the latch. So many impossibilities had stacked, aligned, in short succession. Fenris, with his hand on Carver's, then his lips. Fenris, readily accepting an invitation to his room, abandoning half a goblet of wine. Fenris, undressing in front of the fire, with no apparent care for being watched. Any one of these circumstances alone was beyond hoping for, and here he was presented with them all. He had to remind himself to breathe.

"Help me with this," Fenris turned only his head to glance at Carver with the request. He had managed to shed the cloak into a sopping pile, but little else. It didn't take any further invitation for Carver to close the space between them, though he found himself suddenly wrestling with self-control. His fingers fumbled at Fenris' scarf for a moment before he could begin to unwind. The thought of stripping the man down was more than enticing: it was a long-favored fantasy. And Fenris had come back to the room, after words that were little less than proposition. Still, the idea that he may be overstepping, misreading, lay heavy in Carver's mind. It was a thought that stilled his fingers after he had stripped away the scarf and a heavy woolen top. There was still another layer of clothing, though this one light linen, cut low at the throat and high at the sleeves. Fenris must have noticed the hesitation, as he turned to face Carver while the other stood so still, fingers on his shoulders. He took Carver's hand, guided it down along the the sharp ridge of his clavicle, then tracing up his throat. He pressed his cheek- still cool from icy winds- against the warmth of Carver's palm, the pressed his lips to the heel of his hand.

Carver took the signal and even some initiative. He lifted Fenris' chin, stooped down to take another kiss. His lips were cool and wet from the snow, the faint bite of wine faded to allow a taste that belonged entirely to the man. He moved slowly this time, against every impulse and inclination. He wanted to learn, to memorize and immortalize the taste, the shape, the softness. He wanted, more broadly, to know every detail of Fenris' body, starting here. And though the want was urgent, he held steady, relished this lengthy moment. Carver let his hand drop slowly, trace back down Fenris' throat. He felt the man's hands circle back, cross against the base of his neck, while his own continued downward. Carver's fingers traced the hollow at the base of his neck, his other hand cupping into the small of Fenris' back. Lower still, tangling with linen, pressing against the curve of muscle beneath. Fingers splaying, spanning as much space as he could, brushing a nipple through the fabric here, the edge of collarbone there. He could feel Fenris' heart pounding furious, frantic against his palm, and he pressed their lips together harder, crushing, bruising.

They took a step in tandem, Carver forward, Fenris back, toward the bed. Their lips broke and Carver gave up his slow assault for a moment to tug away Fenris' final top layer. He paused for a moment, almost stepped back for perspective. Whatever cold he might have complained of minutes before, Fenris now bore a light sheen of sweat, all the better to highlight and define the curves of his torso. Carver's eyes traced the lines- the natural ones, of bone and muscle and flesh, and those etched in, the enticing curves and swirls that rolled across his chest, over his hips, disappeared beneath his belt and behind his back. Carver reached to touch him again, to resume exploration without the hindrance of clothing, but Fenris' hand caught his wrist. A jolt of panic threatened, but he caught a smirk and happily let himself be pulled back to the bed. He sat at the edge, and just as quickly as he had found the spot, Fenris was straddled onto his lap, pulling with far less patience at Carver's shirt.

Carver, for his part, was far less layered, stripped to only his pants with a few quick movements. Fenris stilled on his perch for a time that felt too long and Carver found himself holding his breath, as if waiting for grand judgement to be passed. He considered his own body in contrast to his partner's. Where Fenris was all sharp points, defined angles, meticulous lines and, to Carver's mind, artful perfection, Carver felt himself clumsily composed. He was broad and pale, with a haphazard smattering of freckles on his wide shoulders and scars across his considerably less-defined chest. Dark hair formed a trail down from the midpoint of his sternum, interrupted by navel, before resuming and spreading lower. Carver licked his lips, watched Fenris' darting eyes for some sign of reaction. He was still smiling, at any rate.

He shivered when Fenris' fingers danced over his shoulders. A surge of heat followed every gentle, reverent touch, then pulsed lower. Carver's face burnt when Fenris shifted on his lap, pinned himself against the growing strain in his pants. What would he have expected though, with his hands tracing scars and lines of hair, dancing against his ribs then down to his hips. He swallowed, attempted a steadying breath, and slid his hands under Fenris' ass, drew him closer still until a brushing of fabric and flesh and heat at their bellies pulled a groan from his throat.

"Tell me what you want," Fenris purred into Carver's ear, hands firm now on his shoulders. He had pressed closer, hard and hot between them. Carver struggled for words, for a real response. His mind was at once tugged in a million directions, a billion possibilities, but somehow felt blank. Instead of responding immediately, he pressed his lips into Fenris' neck, tongued over pounding pulse while he tried to turn any one of those thoughts coherent.

"You," Carver finally managed, "I want you," he didn't want to lose any point of contact, breathed the words against Fenris' throat while his hands moved down the curve of his back, then lower again.

"You have me," Fenris straightened on Carver's lap, arched his back. Carver made first a disapproving, desperate whine as he pulled back, then a deeper, more primal, more needful grunt as gravity shifted and Fenris' hips rocked into him. "However you like. Tell me," his voice hovered between, bordered somehow on both plea and command. Carver couldn't look away from his eyes, from the uneven shadows dancing across his face, over his body. But he went warm and pink all the way up to the tips of his ears at the prospect of saying anything at all. He didn't fancy himself passive so much as out of his depth, bordering on inexperienced. The things he wanted, though clear in his mind, felt difficult to articulate. There were abstracts- the feelings Fenris forced him to experience; pressure and heat in particular places, with particular words; but even the more concrete, the more straightforward, seemed impossible to voice.

"Down," Carver finally murmured, though he swore it pained him to do so. He guided Fenris from his lap, spread his legs further though the strain at his pants when he did became a downright ache, "on your knees," he added, though Fenris was already lowering himself before the command came. Carver pushed himself closer to the edge of the bed, fingers suddenly clumsy as he went for his belt. Fenris' hands closed around his though, halting him before he could make any progress.

"Let me," the husky tone sent a shiver down Carver's spine and, without a word of complaint, he let his hands drop to his sides so Fenris could work open his pants. There was a moment of relief, with his pants no longer so restricting, tangled instead around his ankles. And Fenris' hands were working over his thighs, lips pressing hot and wet against his belly. He shuddered, lifted his hips with a groan. Carver was briefly aware of Fenris undoing his own pants, working a few generous strokes over himself while he still spread kisses along Carver's thighs. Carver made a low, wanting sound in response, untangled a hand from the bedspread to stretch toward the other, but the best parts were out of reach and he had to settle for weaving his fingers into the damp, shock white hair.

Carver tried, at least initially, to remain gentle. A light tug here, to guide Fenris exactly where he wanted him. His fingers loosened when he finally felt the heat of Fenris' tongue dragging, twisting up his cock, then tightened and pulled- hard- when mouth wrapped around him. Fenris grunted around him, a noise of apparent approval, fingers shifting to rake over Carver's thighs. Carver's head tilted back, gaze danced across the ceiling before his eyes slid shut entirely. All of it- the heat, the moisture, the sting of Fenris' fingernails on his legs and the sounds he made while his tongue swirled- sent Carver's mind to pieces.

Certainly, there had been partners, experiences before. In Lothering and Kirkwall, even in the Wardens, he'd found fair opportunity to indulge in base comforts, but they all paled easily here. The care Fenris showed, the particular way Carver's heart leapt when he managed to open his eyes, look down. The desire- had he the self-restraint to actually pause here- to draw Fenris up into his arms, to shower him with kisses and affection. These were all new, almost as disorienting as mouth and tongue and hands themselves. The moment, the sensation, even as his muscles began to tighten in anticipation, might have lasted forever for all that Carver cared. An endless repeat of Fenris between his legs, lips stretched around him and fingers now at his own attention; he could live with that.

It wasn't forever, of course. All considered, it wasn't long at all, before Carver was squirming, bucking, whispering Fenris' name with a sort of sheet-tearing, eye-watering need. His body, every inch, every nerve coiled and releasing exploding with pleasure, while his mind went hazy and numb. So quickly, so damnably quickly, they became a clumsy and exhausted tangle, crawling lazily into the bed all quick breaths and sweat slick, Fenris drawn up into Carver's chest while blankets found their way more or less over the pair. Words were returning to Carver, bubbling in his throat and halting before his lips. Too many, too raw and honest and needy. He set his jaw, tightened an arm around Fenris, and said nothing.

What was there, after all, to say? Questions, perhaps. Horrible, embarrassing things about love and lust and where between the two they stood. Carver blushed just to think of it. This confession, the one that dripped with physicality and base need was hard enough. And he was still buzzing lightly from the experience, just enough that he could keep his mouth shut, could appreciate the extra warmth of Fenris curled, clung to him with breathing going even and slow, eyes for once more lidded than alert. His thoughts were threatening to spring back to life, to leave him the hollow and terrified mess Carver had accepted to be his new state of self since the Fade. He shut his eyes against it all, drew the covers higher, and prayed sleep would come first.

 

When Carver woke, it was in fits and starts, with tears choking and an unfamiliar pressure on his chest. There ensued a struggle with heavy blankets, with Fenris waking and detaching himself in a haze of confusion, with Carver trying to his feet, stumbling, still cloudy with sleep. The nightmare, whatever hell he had experienced to leave him sobbing and sweating and pathetic at the edge of his bed, had disappeared with only the oppressive feelings of doubt and anguish and dread to remind Carver it had been there at all. There were questions- _where am I? what happened? what time is it? ...Fenris?_ \- answering themselves as the sleep shook off. The tears, the low sobs, he couldn't halt or respond to so well.

He felt Fenris' arms wrap around his waist, a cheek press against his back. He made an attempt at deep breathing, a desperate reach to at least slow the undignified sobs, but it was hopeless. Fenris didn't comment, didn't say a word, but lips pressed up against his shoulder and the hold tightened around his waist. Carver put his hands over where Fenris clasped around his belly, swallowed salt and anguish to work up words.

"He's dead. He's actually...dead," he was shocked, really, if Fenris could understand what he said at all. Carver found himself embarrassed, mortified, and helpless to hide. Had he said these words? He must have. It didn't mean he had yet fully accepted them though, had entirely conceded to the fact. He wanted to be sick, to scream, to run or hide or find some way back to the fade and make this all right. Instead, he sat there, naked and hunched over the side of the bed, unable to stop his hands from shaking or his foot from bouncing or his tears from flowing.

"So what will we do about it?" What might have been a sarcastic question, even a cruel one, was asked with a tone of utter sincerity. Carver turned his head to glance over his shoulder. Fenris had risen briefly, then found seat next to Carver at the bedside. He tangled their hands together and narrowed his eyes, face hard, determined, "I'm not overly fond of the idea of fighting this demon ourselves. And the fade-"

"-no," Carver shook his head quickly, "not the demon. The risk is," while the tears still came, the focus on a plan had been enough to allow Carver steadier breaths, even coherent words, "Corypheus. It all comes back to him," He squeezed Fenris' hand, though he stared at the ground, "but you shouldn't-"

"-we'll stay with the Inquisition, then?" Fenris made point to interrupt, still writ with ambition. Carver appreciated it. The fight would, if Fenris really intended to put himself at such risk to help in his own quest for vengeance, come up again. Just now, though, Carver was happy to let him set it aside. It was easier, for the moment at least, to have Fenris' presence as a given.

"The Wardens might not approve of the plan," still deep breaths after the statement, still shaking hand clinging to Fenris', but it was clearing. His eyes burnt and welled just a little less. His mind was beginning to work again, to pick up on details and flaws that would, at some point, need to be addressed.

"I think they might have other concerns at the moment," Fenris offered with a smirk and Carver even breathed out something close to a chuckle. Still, the question lingered, nagged at the back of Carver's mind. Making plans, even short term, likely fatalistic plans, seemed to carry weight, implications, all manner of concerns he hadn't expected. And, of course, they presented themselves to Carver instantly and all at once.

"You don't have to do this," there was a long pause before he said it. He was almost afraid to glance beside him at Fenris, who only leaned a little closer in response, "it's dangerous. And it might be hopeless," his argument was half-heated, though. How could Carver really make case for Fenris to leave, when he wanted nothing more than to gather him up in his arms, forever?

"I already told you," there was an edge of stubbornness when Fenris finally spoke, "Whatever you're feeling, with what happened in the Fade, and what happened back in Kirkwall, and what's been happening for you forever," he lifted his chin slightly, set his gaze toward the window with the first fingers of dawn creeping over the mountains, unobstructed now that the storm had passed, "you're not alone."


End file.
